We are part of creation

County Galway nestles into the midpoint of the west coast of Ireland. The beautiful region of Connemara reaches out into the Atlantic Ocean, with the busy market town of Clifden at its tip (self-identified as being on the edge of Europe). Connemara is known for its sturdy ponies, the iconic Kylemore Abbey, the long and moody Killary Fjord, fly-fishing, James Joyce, and two compact, striking mountain ranges: the Twelve Bens and the Maumturks.

These two ranges have rich green and blue tones, and are separated by the Inaugh Valley, where, from a road that weaves along its floor, you can look up at their very distinct and imposing peaks, ridges and saddles. By the standards of our western mountains, the Bens and Maumturks are not very high (about 700 metres compared to over 3,500 metres), but they rise sharply from actual sea level.

The pastime of travelling by foot through mountains is misleadingly called “hill walking” in Ireland. Having spent a fair bit of time hiking in the Canadian Rockies, I can say that hill walking in Connemara provides challenges and vistas that are every bit as breathtaking. The only thing missing is the possibility of encountering a bear (sheep require pepper spray only when they are on the menu).

I have been very privileged to travel often to my parents’ homeland and have spent many long solo days in the mountains of Connemara, travelling to each of the highly varied peaks of the Twelve Bens and through most of the often-treacherous ridges of the Maumturks. Their proximity to the sea can make things interesting. In any one day it is possible to find yourself in clear skies, heavy fog, sheeting rain and blasting wind. And to find your feet on grasses, mosses, heather, bracken, shale, peat, stone and solid rock. There are few defined paths (apart from deceptive sheep trails) and you have to be very careful not to find yourself suddenly on the edge of a steep cliff. You need to be fully alert, fully alive.

I enjoy hill walking alone because it is deeply contemplative and utterly real: there is no space between my body and creation; neither is there any space between my spirit and the Creator. Some might call this the “thin place” of Celtic spirituality. For me, this is not something I know from reading but from living through intense life experiences that led me to see that body and spirit are only truly at home in places that are close to creation and close to the Creator.

In this season of late autumn, less daylight, and making ready for winter; this time of watching the cusp of summer sweep into the colours of October and into the still, watchful days of November; creation reminds us that our bodies move through seasons, sweeping through times of ease, fullness, struggle, loss. We are in this way very much a part of creation, and nothing can remove us from that reality, so it is wise to embrace it and to live life as fully as possible.

To feel truly alive, truly at home, listen well to the one who gives you life. Walk closely with the Creator, who is among us, within us, before us, behind us, beneath us, above us—telling us to live and love as Jesus did: with mercy, compassion and peace, bringing hopeful, saving, redeeming, transforming love to all creation, to all creatures.